


Skin Deep

by laratoncita



Category: On My Block (TV)
Genre: Gangs, Gen, Gun Violence, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-29 09:31:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19827334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laratoncita/pseuds/laratoncita
Summary: Oscar's sixteen, that first time.





	Skin Deep

**Author's Note:**

> :(

> Jessica  
>  has a forehead scar from  
>  the deep end of a pool. I  
>  ask Jessica what drowning  
>  feels like and she says  
>  not everything feels like  
>  something else.
> 
> Angie Sijun Lou

It doesn’t hurt too bad. Oscar can almost pretend it’s just a cat scratch, like the strays that would hang around their place in the summer when it was too hot to find shade elsewhere. They didn’t cause too much trouble, never came close enough to touch. Even the animals knew better than to try and get into their house; he can’t remember ever seeing mice, despite the mess that was so often found in the Diaz home.

Nothing about _that_ house is like this one. A front yard overrun with flowers, the smell of it wafting in through the window. The sounds of a TV playing some kid’s show, probably the youngest one that lives here. A fresh paintjob, everything clean. Out back, Oscar knows, there’s a vegetable garden. He’s seen the missus kneeling out there, pulling weeds and watering her plants. It makes him ache, a little bit, for that kind of normalcy, even if he should know better by now.

Cuchillos has one hand holding his jaw still and the other moving the tattoo gun across his skin. He said it wouldn’t take long. He said not to move. That it doesn’t hurt too bad, and he’s right. It doesn’t.

 _This_ is the kind of life Oscar should be used to, and most days he is. It’s hard to think of it fitting into this building, though: Cuchillos with tattoos up to his neck, real Chicano style, he says. Weapons and women, half-naked or draped in bandoliers. Real pachucos in their zoot suits, la Virgen on his chest. This house that smells like lemon Fabuloso and has lacy white curtains hides Cuchillos. It’s the house he keeps his women—his wife, two daughters between Oscar and Cesar’s age—and where, sometimes, boys like Oscar will come by to get inked.

Whether for the first or tenth time, it’s an honor. Cuchillos isn’t even self-taught. Works at it for real, still, makes decent enough money that the TV in his house is new and his girls wear brand-name shit that isn’t just Adidas. Lucky-brand jeans, real gold in their ears. He does his own, sometimes, and will ink up a Santo when he asks for a cross or teardrop. Almost like it’s a reward. Like Oscar’s done something _right_ , and not shot Malachi Tripp, point blank, and then puked the second he got back onto Santos territory.

“I’m real proud of you, mijo,” Cuchillos says, gloved hand still on Oscar’s face. The gun is buzzing, and Oscar stares at the little portrait of baby Jesus on the far wall. It’s painted yellow. Cheerful. Like nothing in the world go could go wrong, and everyone in this house just soaks in the sun every day and goes about their business like nothing. Doesn’t matter if that’s not true. That’s what it feels like. That’s what counts.

Oscar can’t say how long it takes for the memory of Malachi to be made permanent on his skin. He’s known—no, he _knew_ —him since middle school. Sixth grade. Same pre-algebra class, same language arts. He was the only one who was real competition, during those spelling bees. His older brother ran with the Prophets, though, and like Oscar, he probably didn’t stand much of a chance.

It’s not like he stood one against Oscar, after all. It’s been weeks, but he can still smell the gun powder on him. Can still feel his hand wrapped too tight around the handle of the gun. Dreams of how he unloaded the clip. How he sprinted down the block into Santi’s car and they peeled out. The sun was so hot, the high heat of summer burning the whole city up. He couldn’t even look at Cesar, that night. Went straight to bed and stayed there until the next morning, when Santi came by and got him drunk off caguamas, tried throwing him some girls he brushed off none-too-nicely.

Maybe that’s why he wasn’t able to go back to school. Didn’t matter that he was still good at school when he’d show up, didn’t matter that part of him still dreams of getting himself and Cesar out of Freeridge. He barely managed two weeks before he started getting the paperwork ready, had his mom actually sign shit and called it done. He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t walk in the same halls he used to, that _Malachi_ used to, that the kids he’s known for years still considered safe.

They can’t be safe with a killer inside. And that’s what Oscar is, now.

That’s what this tattoo means. It’s almost a promise.

Cuchillos says, “It looks good, homie. You look like a real Santo.” He has Oscar stand up, look at the little mirror behind him. Oscar doesn’t want to look, but he does.

What he means, Oscar knows, taking in the dark ink, the irritated skin, is that he looks like his father. Looks like him, acts like him, has blood on his hands just like him. More than one person has said so; the older he gets, the more obvious it is. _All Diaz_ , they say. _You’re your daddy’s son, through and through._

Oscar’s never wanted to be anyone else so badly. Doesn’t even want to be himself, most days. And it’s still true, even now, staring at his own reflection and seeing the rest of his life stretch out in front of him. An endless haze of tattoos and dealing, of trying to scrape by. Of trying to take care of Cesar. He can taste it like blood in his mouth—he’s going to fail, and it’ll probably be all his fault. Maybe he could have said no. Maybe he could have _been_ somebody.

But he’s not. His skin feels tender. A little bit of something—blood, or ink, or soap, maybe—stays smeared over his cheekbone. He thinks of Malachi falling. All it is, really, is a smudge of black ink. He can almost pretend it’s drawn on. Just a little accident, even if it hurts. In good time it’ll heal.

It’s just a cat scratch, he thinks. That’s all it really feels like.


End file.
